When Roses Are Blue
by Vyudali
Summary: America believes being bruised and bloody is not so bad if it makes others happy. Unknowingly, Russia takes his turn.
1. Picking the Bud

_**A/N:** I wanted to try something darker, so I apologize if the writing is lacking or not on-par with the mood (or vise-versa) I'm trying to convey. Or if this overall sucks. Not every day I write less than a 3k word first chapter._

_It's also well to note that R__ussia is not an evil psychopath in this. It may seem that way at first, but that's not how this is going to go. Here we go . . ._

* * *

_There is no coming to consciousness without pain._

_-Carl Jung_

On normal days he could take it.

Meetings would end as they often did: active yet useless. Talks, fantasies at this point, of peace masking second intentions. His temper remained cold and silent like his land, just as the last footstep left hearing range to signal the end of a nonsensical trip. His car would be waiting and that would be the end of that. The only worry left on his mind would be the long flight home, and eventual evidence of his sister's rounds through his stuff. Having grown used to the intrusion it wouldn't matter. He'd be slightly terrified of her continuous presence, but after finding she'd gone home – as per usual – Russia would collapse on his bed to dream the awful languid feeling in his body away.

Months later he would return to their grouping excited for the show that was to come.

His allies were strange, but playful and entertaining. Fights, petty words shot back and forth, the occasional gossip of who had slept with whom. Whether the coupling had been a mistake or not, what followed after certainly kept him interested through the mild, rare inputs of useful information.

Yes, watching them had always been fun – at least, it had been until recently.

_He_ caused it.

_He _kept at it.

Russia couldn't stand _him_.

And finally, Russia couldn't _take it _anymore.

He made his move after their meeting when the target left quickly with mentions of a burger joint. In character of him, but just like every other time no one cared. To Russia this was simply a sign that he would get away with it.

Because they were in America this time.

Russia stepped off the elevator and followed him. The hallways were clear of witnesses; vacant in both bodies and sound save for a small echo of a ringing phone. Someone should get that, he thought, but it seemed the secretary to this floor was out to lunch. For once their meeting had not lasted until sundown, and for that he is thankful. The ringing was welcoming, in a way. Whoever was on the other end would forever be ignorant to the blood they might have prevented if the secretary had not disappeared. Russia smiled, then felt his chest tighten at the sight of him only a dozen feet way.

The night before he'd been conflicted. Russia, the human part, wanted friends, not enemies and yet there he had sat, downing a glass of vodka in front of his hotel's television, seated dazed on a flat couch imagining the many ways he would beat the living hell out of him. That did not happen often, despite what others thought. Bosses were a tricky thing that most nations knew had no personal impact on their human sides, but that did not stop others from creating a cliché in his unorthodox ways. He wished to change that, tried so hard to, but in the end his demons took over.

_I want friends. Friends are good. But him…he is not one. Never will be. I do not want him._

He felt vaguely aware of nearing the security camera's blind spot; feeling the glass eye edging people to commit wrong roving over him- then gone. Burning sensations of knowing his chance had come and grabbing thick, soft hair and dragging the body attached to it into a nearby office. Empty, to his pleasure. There was a cry somewhere but he paid no mind as he reached into his coat and pulled out his pipe.

What came next was a blur, but even as the phone's echoing ring ceased and the screams faded into silence Russia would say he'd had a fun time. All that was left was the visual of that blonde idiot lying blue and red – no longer yellow or white – on the carpeted floor, a rather large mess of his own blood tainting its official hue. The scene was pathetic and oh so very satisfying - to be finally free of the beast.

Blood was everywhere.

The last evidence he could ascertain of his explosive anger for justification and eventual leave of a blind thirst for blood was the sanguine liquid on his gloves. It glistened from the yellow light permeating the air; a holy lie if Russia ever saw one, to have purification touch his crime.

Even breaths escaped noisily to cloud around him, ceasing the haze of red. His fingers uncurled, then coiled around his scarf and fully around his neck, so no ends would show signs of what transpired that moment in the future. No one could know or he would risk war. But would that matter now? He wondered. America never took attacks lightly, although the absence of home soil involvement might keep him under the radar. Qualms- personal grudges between the personifications were petty in their modern world. Russia would have to count on pride for America's silence.

His feet moved just as America groaned behind him.

"Are you – ," he coughed. A thick mixture of blood and spit had made its way down the blonde's lip. "_Fuck_….ah, d-done?"

Russia felt his nose wrinkle. "What?"

America's neck, now ornamenting a purple curving splotch of decay below his chin and down his collarbone where the white of his shirt used to be, stretched only an inch, too painful for the nation's eyes to meet him. "If you're done c-can you do me a solid and lock the door on your way out?"

Remaining still Russia, almost shaking as the demons returned with America's nonchalance, watched him ease to his knees. Pain swept his face and past, one arm shielding his stomach before his body met the floor and had the audacity to chuckle. "_Shit_. Ahah… you really don't hold back. Not that I expected you to."

_Expect._

America flinched when he turned. Whatever mild satisfaction Russia might have fed off of that reaction quickly died when the blonde nation took a breath and closed his eyes, slumping against the carpeted floor –_ ready_ for a predicted beating Russia had no intention of giving but would not deny he considered. Now that his rage had descended, however, and his violets roamed the body he'd marred only one question roved: Where were the kicks? The curses and threats of revenge? Russia had expected at least one spat at his communist past. Not…._nothing. _

Annoyed, he thrust the man inches from his nose, Russia's pale blondes ghosting above dazed blue eyes. America winced, but did nothing else. Limp against what held him, his shirt smearing more taint down his sides and chest, Russia saw a willing victim.

America's eyes never truly met anyone's because of a barrier, but with it gone – thrust somewhere during his rampage and most likely broken beyond repair – those eyes guarded themselves in black. They still wouldn't look at him.

Russia felt his lips open and breath leave him, the sound muddled to a soft whisper.

"Have you done this before?"

His hands tensed the longer he witnessed the one he hated most surrender his will, and when an involuntary reaction did not quell his curiosity he waited patiently for the man to answer on his own. He didn't, so Russia shook him and hissed the question again.

America said nothing.

Frustrated, quite frankly tired of dealing with the stubborn child of a nation, Russia growled a curse and headed for the door, releasing his captive to fall harshly onto the now soiled carpet with a grunt and bout of heavy coughs. The Russian was half-way into the hall when his ears caught a silent whisper, almost inaudible if the room and hall were not just as quiet.

"I hope you're the last one."

The door slammed.

It had ended like this.


	2. Stripping its Thorns

_"I'd rather let you cover all my roads with thorns than with dead roses." _  
_― Nema Al-Araby_

* * *

"Vanya, are you alright?"

Startled, Russia lifted himself from a blank stare down between himself and a depressing article in the newspaper. Somewhere between mentions of unrest between his country and another's, and disapproval around the world at his leader's actions his mind fogged into nothing. How long he had been like that Russia was unaware. Long enough to have his sister travel through the entire house into his study, apparently.

Shaking his head, he cleared his throat, mumbling a short, "Of course," before crumpling the black and white print into a bin nearby. He disregarded how unconvinced his sister looked to seek solitude in his room upstairs. He didn't want anyone looking at him – not now, perhaps not until he cleared his guilt.

Life went on. Or, at least, Russia pretended – sometimes truly felt – like it did. Meetings came and went and so did Belarus, who joined him after his most recent for a week's time of familial bonding. She wasn't marriage hungry, bless the suns, and the pair enjoyed a rare sibling-only period of exchanging stories, cooking meals, and walks along casual markets. He accommodated with soft candy smiles not reminiscent of the ominous ones he usually wore, and she followed along with her own rare turn of the lips, brightening of her eyes and shine of demeanor. Russia absorbed her love vigorously, so long as it never morphed into more than friendly. He watched frequently if ever her eyes would glint, not for their history but a twisted future of her desires, or how her hands fidgeted to touch somewhere forbidden. It came as a surprise when Russia never spotted that glint or shake of want, and it would be foolish to complain although he couldn't deny being cautious.

There wasn't a need to be, surprisingly.

Ukraine joined them as well, however short her visits were because of political reasons, and brought laughs to the comfortable silences before returning to her country. Belarus left of her own will shortly after, leaving Russia alone to mend routine hobbies and reminisce on how oddly enjoyable being with his sisters was this time; how…peaceful.

He cooked, cleaned, completed paperwork and then visited the sunflower fields for a sack of seeds or two when the overwhelming blanket of habitual numbness finally won and he packed up his suitcase for an extended visit to the Baltics. Even if he terrified one or two of them, being with them never failed to entertain him, and it happened to be during a one-sided game of hide-and-seek with Latvia that Russia realized he was unnaturally happy and carefree recently. Yes, most people would assume he would be by the shine in his teeth as he grinned to allies and alike, but on the inside he would be cold – ever frozen in loneliness knowing full well how many of his 'friends' wanted nothing to do with him.

Except this time Russia felt warmth. Not the fake imitation that he shed across himself like an aging coat, no, but a blossoming buoyancy not felt by him in a long time.

General Winter left him alone for once.

"I will be seeing all of you!" Russia waved enthusiastically as he'd walked from Lithuania's home, ignorant to the fact that from then on he would curse the Baltic's greenery for instilling the demons back into his system.

Ever since his confession regarding a life dream of his, Lithuania kept a handful of sunflowers growing in his garden. He stopped to admire their strength, the way their greens and yellows swayed strong against the chill as if a pack of brethren huddled against one of nature's mighty blizzards. Russia saw himself in those flowers, and in them an unwanted guest far off to the side.

Roses.

Red roses bleeding the yellow around them dry and mutating its glow to accommodate its own beauty. _Leeches._

_They reminded him of - _

Just like that the ominous tingle was back, strong and pulsating like a wayward infection. He ate, he bathed, he slept, only to find an insufferable itch lurking in his mind, urging as if a hungry bee searched for honey but found the hive to be destroyed. He wanted to push the matter far away never to be dealt with again, but it was inevitable that his bloodthirsty deed at the last world meeting would come back to haunt him.

Each minute of the day since he had expected a phone call, bracing himself when the familiar ring would give him seconds to prepare for an enraged boss whom had just received news of war from a long-time adversary. If Russia was honest with himself, he'd expected his house to be raided at least two days after beating the crap out of America. By the third week the idea that said nation chose the smart, peaceful path of humility settled his paranoia.

With his bubble of bliss popped, curiosity consumed him until he all but acted upon them. Doubtful America would concede to a meeting with him anyway, Russia metaphorically thrust his urges aside. Being gone so long had allowed piles of work to overrun his office, and it was time they were dealt with. He retreated to ignore the issue until it became apparent.

_After all, no one has to confirm how right they were in assuming I'm a psychopath,_ he thought bitterly, chastising himself for being so depressing when there was no need to be. Their words were not true. Every nation had shame.

Something most nations agreed with was that paperwork was easier to attack then yearlong doubts and worries. Nose deep in Cyrillic print, the next few months passed dutifully and before Russia knew it another meeting was scheduled in England.

"It will be fun to see everyone again, do you not think?" Ukraine beamed over the phone days before he would be set to leave. Her sweetness sometimes made Russia feel sick. World meetings hadn't been fun since America became a nuisance, and now . . .

"Yes, sister. Da. London is not cold, I do not need that many coats. Da. See you then. Tell Belarus I said hello."

Standing around in the silence of an otherwise pleasant call left Russia feeling empty. Without the bustle of his family his house was just a metaphorical prison, haunting him with memories every nation alive should have settled over with. Even worse, the _demons_ came back full force.

And it had been such a pleasant couple of months, too.

It was only a matter of time until America's boss called, he often thought. But that call never came, so Russia packet the necessities and left a week early, numb to the travel time as he quite enjoyed the silence, and Big Ben's chime awoke him soon enough. Customs were handled much the same way as he was already used to them. The first day in London ended with a graceful descent onto a large, shampoo-scented hotel bed.

That night, Russia dreamt of thorns. Thorns so sharp they could cut down every enemy to threaten their beauty. For whatever reason, Russia stood in the middle of them and watched as the stems they protected swayed in an invisible breeze, soft and graceful at first, but then bending into crisp turns until the sight if blood began and they cut each other into pieces of green confetti. No more was the forest of roses and their protectors, and Russia's eyes widened at the sight of a body lying in the decay, his breath catching deep in his throat when a wisp of yellow hair made itself known from behind the newly made sea of dead roses.

* * *

**A/N:** Err...surprise? Those were some interesting reviews, I must say, and I thank you for all of them.

Apologies for all the mistakes I surely missed writing this short chapter. Yes, I am continuing with this. I've decided to ignore how I've done things before and keep the chapters under 3k words. It just didn't feel right stretching the chapters out for something like this, you know? With that decided I'm hoping I'll be able to update more. That way I don't feel like a total loser for not updating any of my stories in so long.

No America in this chapter, but Russia's guilt isn't going to let him stay away any longer. Stay tuned.


	3. Cleaning the Stem

_"The mistake is thinking that there can be an antidote to the uncertainty."_

-David Levithan

* * *

"We will each take turns, no intervals between speeches. Everyone will have a time limit of fifteen minutes. Use your time wisely so this does not turn into another pitiful spectacle. China, you are up first."

Tense obedience descended as Germany exchanged places with China, who began speaking immediately. Data, numbers, estimates - whatever he said Russia tuned out for the most part, the presence of a certain nation too noticeable and too close occupying his mind.

They were all present for another gathering - '"world meeting" they called it - America sitting a usually acceptable seven seats away, yet still Russia felt it was too near to his liking. Even at this distance the musky cologne he wore intruded on Russia's senses, reminding him that he was in enemy territory with what might as well be a wanted sign pinned to his spine.

Everything felt numb except for the throbbing of his thoughts against the base of his skull. The chair he sat in suddenly felt too hard on his lower back and desperately needed new padding, no doubt flattened after many years supporting heavy bodies being similarly enduring long speeches like all of them were China's; but Russia had blanked out, mind too jumbled with runaway scenarios of what would come about during these oncoming days should America confront him- a part of him eager for a fight, and another terrified.

Indulging himself had seemed like a good idea _at the time_. Now, Russia realized how grave the repercussions of his desires were.

Games had ceased to be tolerated after the nineties. Would his people have to pay a price? Would he have to continue his façade? He could use scare tactics, of course, but something about having personally committed a crime others falsely and unjustly accused him of time and time again had him fear for his dignity.

A fear that would prove pointless, it seemed, because America never looked his way that day. The man smiled, boasted, and jovially chatted with the other nations like normal throughout their break sessions, completely oblivious to how Russia would glare or stare too long his way, his very presence leaving the larger nation distracted and fidgeting abnormally in his seat. When the clock signaled the end of their meeting day, the normality threatened to turn Russia on a rampage.

No one had to notice his distress, but America could have the decency to send a signal of truce; to allow Russia a moment of ease, if only for a short while - and when that didn't happen his insecurities threatened to drown him as the room dispersed for lunch.

"You seem distracted, brother," he heard Belarus note, her indigo eyes narrowed with genuine concern which brought Russia to the realization that his paranoia had kept him trapped so far into his thoughts his siblings were left ignored, both of which he now realized bore equally worried expressions.

"Headache," came Russia's nervous reply; breathed quickly through shaky lips. His sisters didn't believe him, he could tell. Fighting his worries didn't leave room for him to care, though. Instead, they zoned on a head of blonde making his merry way out, multiple nations at his side.

Russia couldn't stay anymore. Not with _him_ bounding about.

His sisters were already meeting his pace as they began to leave, but upon reaching the hall Russia turned opposite the lunch area, and when Ukraine gave him a curious look he shook his head for her to not follow.

"It is bothering me too much. Germany will understand." Offering no further explanation, he turned to leave only to be stopped when a set of fingers curled firmly around his bicep.

He watched Ukraine frown at him, then turn to Belarus with a smile. "You go on," she assured. Although looking displeased, the girl nodded before following the sea of other nations.

"Sister, please I-"

"You are worried," Ukraine interrupted. "So we will talk."

Russia couldn't fight her when she had that tone of voice, so he reluctantly followed.

Shortly after, the two settled into Russia's hotel room. Ukraine, ever the attentive mother, busied herself making a beverage out of whatever the hotel could offer. Russia knew it served nothing more than a distraction while she waited for him to shed his skin.

"Ivan," he heard, stiffening. Going on the offensive, eh? Now that worried him.

"I know we don't talk much anymore, but I am here. I always will be."

_Because of me, perhaps not._

Her tea warmed his hands almost too much. He thought he might drop the cup if Ukraine wasn't there to catch it. There was no reason for her to burn with him.

He sighed. "I have done something terrible that I do not want to apologize for."

* * *

Sunset welcomed the moonlight into his room. Hours upon hours of running his and Ukraine's earlier exchange in his head had chased the sandman away.

Interacting with the other people would only aggravate his headache, so after swiping a bottle of mystery wine from a mini fridge provided he trudged from his hotel room lost, unfulfilled and mildly disappointed. Russia wanted the guilt plaguing him to go away, but if he could spare confronting America he would.

These conflicting desires kept him at an emotional impasse with which he used as an excuse to laze for hours after Ukraine left, then waking up desperate to busy himself. With what, he didn't know, so long as his mind didn't drift towards considering taking one leap in the direction of the American.

Television, games, books, chess; even the complimentary sunflowers on his coffee table reminded him of America. That sickening grin, blinding blue eyes, and dusty blonde hair pissed him off. Carefree when the world thrust problem after problem on his shoulders, refusing to scream as Russia delivered each blow - pearly whites chipped, dusted with spit and blood, his skin marred purple, life hanging between Russia's fingers-

_I hope you're the last one. _Those words had echoed endlessly in his mind hours after they'd been uttered. _Last one of what? _Russia wondered.

Over the past few days, it's not like he had noticed an elephant in the room.

Russia observed the slowing steps that would on occasion make themselves visible – how America's gate would slide across the carpet similar to an unwilling groom's to an unfortunate wedding. Days surveying the younger nation forced Russia to notice things he would never have admitted to. Forced to ponder - _care_. It angered him, this growing personal knowledge of someone he has grown to dislike.

Frustrated, he drowned his lungs with red and stomped towards someplace – any place – that would keep his thoughts occupied_. Away._

Deciding upon the empty meeting room was the turning point, Russia supposed. Restaurants, bars, or perhaps even the bathroom down the hall might have kept him safe from everything more than his own choice of solace, and yet his feet led Russia down the elevator towards the very place he'd fled. Ten hours early for the next meeting – he would no doubt would find the room empty to use as sanctuary. The least likely place someone would be in if not needed to be.

And, of course, already an obstacle made itself clear.

Twenty feet away the meeting room door opened with a creak. A nation Russia barely recognized crept into the hallway, redolent to ratty cartoon criminals from the slouched shoulders and inconspicuous glances in every direction.

Russia sidestepped behind a tall potted plant on reflex, wondering why he was doing so yet at the same time knowing he had to. He could be thankful, at least, that the plant he'd chosen was taller than him, and hid his form well as he played a familiar game with an unsuspecting player.

In between prickly leaves he caught the nation turn and give a short glance into the room they had just exited before scampering down the opposite end of the hall, out of sight in another part of the building.

Seconds passed with Russia behind the plant, contemplating continuing on his intended route or turning around. Turning around made the most sense, didn't it? In the past he would have followed them, but by now the nation was long gone. Russia had taken too much time thinking about it, trying to convince the legitimately insane part of him to avoid dirtying his hands even more.

It was nothing, he told himself_. They probably forgot something_. Oh, how he wanted to believe that and just walk away. Deny that nudge towards incredulity was there and pretend his fellow nations were as innocent as he tried to make himself out to be –as they _all_ tried to be.

A part of him wanted to laugh that perhaps it was fate steering his wheel and his life finally had meaning. Or perhaps it was just God trying to help him seek redemption for his sin.

Redemption that was soon taken away when something rattled, making Russia scamper deeper into the plant's leaves as quickly as the sound had startled him.

Russia felt his stomach clench when America walked – no_, limped_— out, clutching his side while unsuccessfully trying to hide a splotch of red under shaggy blonde hair.

Their eyes met for only a moment, any remarks either could make caught in their throats because of how unexpected their encounter. America had a dazed color to his eyes and looked positively compromised, but then he finally found his voice (How could he ever lose it?) and called a "What up, dude!" in that obnoxiously booming tone; as if the shadows weren't present for such volume; as if the wounded skin clearly visible through marks or tense limbs weren't visible or Russia wasn't blatantly scoping them out like a researcher to its sample.

The apology he'd been preparing when faced with America slipped into the back of his throat, and he felt himself rushing out a quiet "What are you doing here?" before he realized how intruding of a question that was.

America did not bat an eye; didn't even miss a breath when he replied with, "Forgot something. What about you? The meeting isn't 'till tomorrow morning."

"I…also forgot something," Russia mumbled, bashful.

Laughter was the blonde's scapegoat. Russia had learned years ago how masterful America's ability to fake a delightful laugh was. He retained the knowledge even now.

"What were you doing with them?" Being caught spying might as well yearn some results, he figured.

America 's chuckling broke for a moment, expression relaxing into a steel wall. "Business. It's what we come here for."

"At eleven-thirty at night?"

America clucked his tongue and shrugged. "That's business," he laughed.

"Business," Russia murmured, almost accusing. "Personal matters. There is a fine line between the two."

"And you know where it's drawn, don't you?"

Russia couldn't respond.

He did. Of course he did. All nations formed lines with each other at some point. He and America's was as strong and clear as the oldest rivers, perfectly traced by the two who had spent years finding ways to cross it. Knowing this - admitting it - would force him to retreat to his side. . . and for whatever reason he didn't want that.

Soon America left without another word, leaving the suddenly cold nation alone to regret his mind's numbness and unbefitting silence when presented with the chance to cleanse his conscious.

It was the Cold War all over again, only this time Russia played alone. And yet, as he inspected the meeting room, he couldn't help but confess in the silence of the moonlight:

"Or am I?"

* * *

**A/N:** Bet you didn't expect this to get updated haha. Thank you for the lovely reviews/follows/favorites! I never expect them so when I get them it's really nice.

Edit : Fixed some memtioned time issues in the last part that i didnt nktice before posting. Hope it cleared up any confusion.


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